Wanda Phipps

Thursday, September 17, 2020 slo-mo melting images in my brain dali does a cartwheel california’s burning orange skies smoke wired through clouds do I hear fireworks In the middle of the night in new york or ...

Carrie Magness Radna

He always wanted love more delicious than hard candy couldn’t ever get enough— never could quench down the fire in his loins, in his mouth and she was red-hot once upon a time, before their kid, before the fa...

Olena Jennings

We were trapped inside. We used to throw our cigarette butts out the window. We were leaving pieces of ourselves everywhere then. The soles of my shoes crumbled and the threads of my shirts unraveled. He came to se...

Anna Halberstadt

*** И от любви остаётся горстка пепла, не больше напёрстка. Нет, не страшно стало душе быть нелюбимой уже. Вот тебе рукави...

Kevin R. Pennington

I. Riding the bus, going to the doctor. Today, it’s the psychiatrist. Tomorrow the therapist. I ride in silence, staring at my phone. The trip is long, as measured in poetic meter. Too many stops for an en...

Jim Feast

were usually, “Here take $20” or “Take this $40” which was to pay for stuff at the bodega I read to him late Saturday afternoons, and, as no one was usually due to drop by till Sunday, I got the supplies before I...

Peter Marti

RIP Vincent Zangrillo One by one the pillars we lean on crumble into an equally impossible horizon— you are gone and the City you loved is far away the dead command the living now, are afforded freezer-trucks bu...

Ron Kolm

I’m sitting In the Parkside Lounge With a good friend, drinking Too many White Russians And bemoaning The state of the world. “What’s going to happen?” I ask her. “Well,” she says, “There wi...

Dean Kostos

From a series of digital portraits by Lucas Samaras, Poses. The Pace Gallery, New York, 2010 Your face: invitation to gray fire, dissolving was, will be. Photographed black & white, your head is a George Hurrell ...